


Illogical Match

by Inkblooded_Witch



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 04:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5233541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkblooded_Witch/pseuds/Inkblooded_Witch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone is born with a tattoo. That tattoo has the first words your soul mate will speak to you. Arthur knew he should be grateful he doesn't have anything overly common, but he honestly has no idea how he's supposed to find someone who's first words to him will be "Dude, you eyebrows are adorable!". USUK.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Illogical Match

   Everyone had a tattoo, whether they wanted one or not. That was common knowledge. Depending on just what the tattoo was, it could be on your wrist, arm, or back. Arthur was a little annoyed his was long enough to take up his inner forearm. It wouldn't be so bad, but for two reasons. One, it wasn't exactly a common saying like the ever popular "Welcome to Starbucks, how can I help you?", the current most common tattoo people had on their inner arm. These days it wasn't much better than "Hi" or "Hey".

   Two, was what it _did_ say. Arthur had been the only brother unlucky enough to inherit his father's big, bushy eyebrows. He'd tried everything from plucking to a desperate stab at waxing. Nothing ever worked. Eventually he'd given up. He just wished his tattoo didn't say "Dude, your eyebrows are adorable!". Honestly. He was a Brit living in London. 'Dude' was a word he was quite sure was very American. He had no intention of ever leaving England, thank you very much, even if it did lead him to his soul mate. And why not? So what if he had a steady job as a writer for a top notch publishing firm? So what if it was something he could totally do from anywhere in the world? It had been the job he'd always wanted, that was it.

   Arthur was content with his small, functional flat, though he could afford better at this point. It was cozy, home. It was also very close to some of his favorite places to stake out to get some writing done. A short walk or trip on the tube away, most of them. He worked, read, sipped his tea, and kept to himself. People rarely bothered him, even fewer were stupid enough to comment on his eyebrows. As an adult in his mid-twenties, this only happened when someone was drunk or looking to get punched.

   A particularly rainy day in June found him at a local pub, in his unofficial booth in the back corner. He was a regular, and so long as he bought something no one had a problem with him. If nothing else, so long as he didn't start asking for liquor he was one of the most tolerable patrons they had.

   Rain was pouring down outside, easily audible through the thin wall Arthur sat against. Every now and then a clap of thunder could be heard, but he mostly ignored it. The pub was quieter than usual, the rain keeping folks at home, and he was on a roll. He'd gotten into his stride, fingers flying over the keyboard of his laptop, tuning everything out but the relaxing rain.

   Arthur was so focused on his work that when someone waved their hand in front of his face, he nearly jumped out of his skin with a yelp. It was a dignified yelp, but a yelp nonetheless, and he instantly loathed whoever had broken his train of thought. He looked up, a furious glower set on his face, ready to give this stranger what-for, despite the overly cheerful look on the man's face. Handsome or not, Arthur didn't let anyone off the hook.

   "Dude, you eyebrows are adorable! But I think they're trying to eat your face."

   The Brit's mouth fell open for a heartbeat, before his knee-jerk response came tumbling from his lips. "Sod off you bloody wanker!" he snapped, even as his heart jolted in his chest. Seriously, was it going to be this easy? Even if it wasn't, he'd decided some time ago he didn't want his soul mate to be someone who's first words to him were a tease about his least favorite feature.

   The American's mouth fell open a little, then the widest grin Arthur had ever seen in his life spread across his face. "Finally! I knew if I wandered around this place long enough I'd find ya."

   Arthur was trying to decide whether to punch or throttle the man as he plopped down on the other side of the table, uninvited, and still quite wet. It looked like he really had been wandering around London, if his sopping raincoat and jeans were any indication.

   Before Arthur could formulate a retort worthy of sending this boy packing, he asked cheerfully, "So, I'll show you mine if you show me yours?"

   "Why should I?" demanded Arthur angrily.

   "Because I've spent the last week trying to irritate British people, and you're the first one who said exactly what's on my tattoo," said the American, sliding off his wet glasses. He unzipped his jacket, using his dry t-shirt to dry the lenses before shoving them back onto his nose.

   Reluctantly, Arthur unbuttoned his cuff, rolling up his sleeve to his elbow. The American shrugged off the jacket, putting it over the back of his chair before offering his own arm. Sure enough, etched in Arthur's neat hand were the crude words 'Sod off you bloody wanker!'.

   "At least this explains the horrid handwriting," he said, rolling his sleeve back down. "Why don't they teach you penmanship over there anymore?"

   The man shrugged. "Dunno."

   "It took me several years to convince myself you were even using English," Arthur quipped, not satisfied.

   "Like it took me less time? I didn't know what a wanker was until high school. What kind of an insult is it, anyway? It's not like nobody does it."

   "What sort of word is 'dude'?" demanded Arthur, slamming his laptop shut and folding his arms. "Honestly."

   Despite the fact they were now having a glaring contest across the table, Arthur couldn't help but admire the man across from him. If you were to get stuck with a soul mate, it might as well be one that was physically appealing, right? Standing, the man had been six feet tall, easily. Broad shoulders, a frame that went to a gym with some sort of regularity, tan skin, honey blond hair with a rather odd cowlick, and bright blue eyes behind square-ish frames. This wasn't changed by the fact he was wearing a worn-looking pair of hiking boots, sopping wet jeans, and a snug t-shirt that had the Batman logo on the front. Not at all Arthur's style, or one he would normally find appealing in any way, but the ruddy geek look suited this person quite well.

   It was said person that finally said, "I wasn't kidding. They are adorable, even if they are trying to eat you."

   Arthur spluttered, not at all sure what to do with this. A fresh grin spread over the American's face, and he stuck a hand across the table. "Alfred F Jones. Nice to meet ya."

   Reluctantly, Arthur took the offered hand. "Arthur Kirkland. A pleasure."

   "A pleasure?" asked Alfred, winking after he'd retracted his hand. "Am I that good?"

   Arthur flushed angrily. "I should think not. Don't take a mundane greeting as something it's not, git."

   Alfred frowned. "Get? Get where?"

   It was Arthur's turn to frown. "Sorry?"

   "Oh, wait, is that another one of those British insults? I found a bunch when I was trying to figure out what a wanker was. It actually sounds kind of funny when you say it, though. So what's a git?"

   It took Arthur a minute to realize the young man was quite serious, staring at him intently, waiting. "I don't know which is more concerning. That you expect me to explain my own insults, or the word 'get' is considered proper grammar to you."

   "Sure it is. Get going, get over here, get your ass in gear. Or just get, like when the grumpy neighbor wants you off their lawn."

   Slowly, Arthur closed his eyes. "Bloody hell, what did I get stuck with?"

   "Hey, I ain't that bad," protested the American, pouting. "You just met me."

   "You just used the word "ain't". That's not even a word."

   "Is too. Just 'cause _you_ don't use it-

   "Were are you from, anyway?" asked Arthur. The man's grammar might be horrid, but what Arthur would never admit in a million years was that he found himself actually liking the accent. It was one usually found in the American south, if he remembered correctly.

   "Texas. How 'bout you?"

   "London."

   "So you've never left?"

   "Why would I want to do that?"

   "Because it's boring. You really wanna be born and buried in the same place without doing anything in between?"

   "I hardly see what's wrong with that."

   "Come on, dude, where's your sense of adventure?" asked Alfred, then paused. A thoughtful look on his face, he asked, "Wait, is it because this is a really, really big city? 'Cause I couldn't wait to get out of town, but we had like one stoplight."

   "I've certainly never felt the need to leave," admitted Arthur.

   Alfred chewed his lip. "Well, uh, at least I found you. You have Skype, right?"

   Arthur frowned. "Yes," he said carefully. "Why?"

   "Well, 'cause I wasn't kidding about walking around this place for two weeks. And my limit is three weeks."

   As much as Arthur was having very mixed feelings about this, he didn't fancy the way this was going. "Care to elaborate on that?"

   Alfred scratched the back of his neck. "Remember how I said I'm from Texas? See, my a family runs this ranch, and it's just me and my brother. My mom died a while back, and dad wants to make sure he'll have nothing to worry about if he follows her anytime soon. I came over here a few times in high school and college, exchange student and study abroad programs, but I never found you. You don't exactly find a lot of Brits in the middle of nowhere, so I talked dad into letting me come back one last time. He let me do this for a month, then I go home for good. I know I'm grown up, but I actually do want to run the ranch, and I'm good at it. Besides, he's my dad. I owe him everything. So since you don't seem to like me very much, how does Skype and email sound?"

   Arthur just sat and stared at him. Initially he would have sworn he was looking at a kid not yet accepted into Uni. Now he wasn't so sure. He was something of a chatter box, apparently, but one Arthur found himself liking a bit more. What's more, the change in demeanor was oddly appealing. Abruptly, he asked, "How old are you?"

   "Just turned twenty one. Why?"

   Okay, not that big an age difference, good. "I'm hardly going to pick up and leave at the drop of a hat. But if you're serious about making this work, I'm not going to let you fly back without getting some real face time with you. When _are_ you due to fly back?"

   "Saturday. So you don't hate me?"

   Arthur arched an eyebrow. "Despite your efforts, no. Give me your phone."

   "Why?" asked Alfred, even as he reached into his pocket.

   "I'm going to dunk it in my tea," Arthur stated flatly.

   When Alfred froze, eyes narrowing, the Brit rolled his eyes.

   "I'm going to give you my bloody number you idiot. Against my better judgment, I might add. As though I'd ever intentionally spoil a perfectly good cup of tea."

   Alfred grinned. "Thanks, Artie."

   "It's Arthur."

   "Aw, can't I call you Artie? I am your soul mate after all."

   "Simply because I won't spoil my tea doesn't mean I'm not above finding something else to drop your phone in," Arthur informed him, handing it back.

   Alfred pouted. "You're no fun. At least I didn't call you Eyebrows."

   Arthur's eyes narrowed. "I thought the whole point of crossing an ocean was to find me. Why are you so insistent in trying to annoy me?"

   "Because I wanna be honest with you Artie- Arthur. This is me. I'm not gonna lie to you. I know I'm not perfect, and I know I can get on people's nerves, but you can probably say the same about yourself. You don't see me complaining."

   Arthur smiled. "Get your arse off my chair and out the door."

   "But-

   "Now."

   Alfred's face fell. Looking like a crestfallen, kicked puppy, he got to his feet.

   As he shrugged back into his jacket, though, Arthur continued, "In case you didn't notice, I'm working. If I'm going to spend the better part of the week trying to figure out how to put up with you, I need to make some progress now."

   Arthur had never seen someone change emotions so quickly. He'd also never had someone who he still categorized as a stranger bend down and kiss his cheek. He sat there, spluttering, trying to find a name suitably vulgar for the American as Alfred just grinned.

   "Text me when you're done with work, 'kay Artie?"

   "It's Arthur you sodding idiot!"

   "I know."

   Arthur glowered after him as he walked away, a noticeable bounce in his step. He was still making that same face five minutes later, when his phone buzzed. Checking the screen, he found a text from an unknown number. 'Nice to finally meet you, Artie! Can't wait to take you to dinner.' The brief message was followed by a kissy face.

   Arthur didn't know whether to blush or groan in exasperation. He glared at his arm, and the covered tattoo, which would have faded by now. They always did after you made contact with your soul mate.

   "I blame you for this," he informed it.

**BREAK/BREAK\BREAK**

_Five months later...._

   Arthur stood at the kitchen sink, steaming mug in hand. He peered out the window set above it, studying the clear blue sky. Not a single cloud. It was as bright and sunny as ever. Sighing, he took a slow sip of his tea. Well, at least he was still able to find Earl Gray. Honestly, he hadn't believed Alfred when he'd said he'd only seen snow when he was in England. It was Christmas Eve, and the ground had yet to suffer a single snowflake.

   The kitchen door was thrown open, and Arthur turned as Alfred came inside, grinning. "Whoo! It's freezing out there."

   Arthur eyed the window incredulously. "I find that hard to believe."

   "Says the guy who needs three layers just to check the mail these days. Just because we don't get snow doesn't mean it doesn't get cold, Artie," Alfred told him, tugging off his gloves. "Come on, are you gonna stay cooped up all day?"

   "Yes. I still don't see why you won't let me help with the cooking."

   "Because we need our workers to survive Christmas dinner. Artie, I love you, but I can't let you commit mass murder on Christmas."

   Arthur glared at him, even when Alfred kissed his cheek. "It's bad enough my brothers tease me about it. Now you too. I thought you liked my cooking."

   "I like your scones," Alfred corrected. He stood behind Arthur, winding his arms around his waist. "Come on, please just let it go?"

   Arthur huffed. "Fine," he grumbled, trying to ignore the lips pressing kisses to his neck. "Would you stop that?"

   "Why?"

   "Because we're not exactly alone in the house."

   "Mattie is getting in a quickie with Gilbert while dad is out getting some last minute stuff for dinner. It's a pretty good idea actually."

   "We are not shagging in the kitchen in the middle of the day," hissed Arthur as Alfred set his mug aside, still kissing his neck.

   "Why? Most of the guys are with their families. The ones who aren't are chilling elsewhere. Come on, Artie, we both know you're as kinky as I am."

   Arthur felt his face flush, but before he could protest Alfred moved to his mouth. He wavered, then relaxed, arms going around his neck as Arthur kissed him back. Alfred smiled against his lips, backing him up to the nearest counter. Arthur slid one hand up, running it through Alfred's hair and catching his cowlick in hand. His own lips curled up when the younger man's breath caught.

   Alfred's week in London had been quite productive. Arthur was in a spot where he could afford to take several days off in a row, and most of those days were spent with Alfred. He soon found that if he was willing to tolerate how childishly eager and annoying the American could be, it was worth sticking it out. Yes they fought, and quite regularly, even now. But by the time Arthur was telling Alfred good bye at the airport, he'd more or less made up his mind.

   Within the next month, he was selling his apartment and shipping his things over the pond. Alfred had been overjoyed to see him, nearly tackling Arthur in a hug when he immerged in baggage claim. Arthur had managed to not actually fall down, but he had dropped his cat carrier. The Scottish fold hadn't been happy with this, but she had been happy to see Alfred again once he'd apologized and given her a good scratch. The tuna he snuck her whenever Arthur wasn't looking, something he had yet to stop doing, hadn't hurt either.

   Arthur was able to maintain his work easily enough, and despite continued use of Skype would need to go to London once a year, but it was workable. Alfred, he found, was working on a business degree online whilst preparing to take over running the ranch. It had been yet another surprise, that someone who couldn't read the atmosphere to save his life and still loved Superman was also very apt in the math and science departments. That said, Arthur did feel a bit proud of him, not that he'd admit it. He might have moved his life to a new country, but Alfred was juggling the ranch and a new relationship while trying to be a full time student. Even though Arthur had given him an earful for not mentioning it prior to his move, as he would have been willing to wait until that much had been completed, Alfred was stubbornly unrepentant. Usually, because he was completely useless on a ranch, Arthur tried very hard to stay out of the way. Only about half the working hands liked him, and Mr. Jones had needed a little time to get used to Alfred's soul mate being another man, but at least Mathew got along with him fine. He might gently urge Arthur to never ever cook, but that was it.

   Some days, Arthur wondered if coming to a place so out of his natural element was a mistake. But then there were also days like this. When he remembered why he'd done it, and that no matter how many times he gave someone food poisoning or nearly started a stamped, Alfred still loved him. Why, Arthur had no idea, but he wasn't complaining.

   Especially not now. Arthur clung to Alfred, gasping as the American lifted him off the floor, setting him on the counter. Callused hands slid around from his backside to his front, yanking open his pants. Arthur fumbled to return the favor, jerking at Alfred's jeans. Said man was devouring his mouth in a very thorough fashion, making Arthur gasp for air when he finally pulled away.

   "Either you thought this through, or the lube's still in your room," panted Arthur.

   "Got it covered, don't worry," rasped Alfred, moving down to his neck.

   Arthur let his eyes flutter closed, tangling a hand in Alfred's hair as he trailed kisses down his neck. When he was tugged off the counter, he was surprised when Alfred actually hitched him a little higher on his own body, jerking his pants down.

   "What are you doing?" he protested breathlessly, clutching broad shoulders.

   Alfred grinned. He was still grinning when something cool and slick pressed against Arthur's entrance, making him start. "You know what they say, Artie. Save a horse, ride a-

   He was cut off when Arthur kissed him, pressing down on the slicked fingers before he could change his mind. Arthur had decided not to ask, just appreciating that they would actually be able to do this. He knew Alfred's strength was borderline unbelievable, and while he still didn't know why, he had yet to complain. He moaned into his lover's mouth as a third finger was added, spreading him wider.

   "More," he rasped, tugging at the cowlick.

   Immediately a fourth finger wormed its way in, though Alfred was starting to tremble a little. Knowing it wasn't his weight, Arthur smirked. Catching his lower lip between his teeth, he slowly twirled the cowlick, and said in a husky voice, _"Fuck_ me."

   In the space of a heartbeat, fingers had been pulled out and something else was pushing in. Arthur groaned, but pressed against it. It had been a few days, but he didn't care. He kissed Alfred eagerly, who returned the favor, hands still gripping his ass firmly.

   Alfred was quiet happy to obey original order, and was soon thrusting hard, making Arthur burry his face in the American's shoulder to muffle his cries. Alfred actually liked that Arthur was a bit loud, but it did make for problems sometimes. He took his soul mate hard and fast, hurling them towards a climax. The combination kink of quickie-in-the-kitchen-in-the-middle-of-the-day combined with their current position made it that much easier.

   Arthur's eyes were going hazy even before Alfred jammed him up against the wall, taking some of the weight off his arms so he could put more effort into each thrust. Arthur clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling his loud cries as the hand opposite clung tightly to Alfred's shoulder. Alfred nipped at his exposed neck, grinning.

   "Come on, Iggy, who's gonna hear you?" he rasped.

   Arthur's grip on him tightened as he gave a loud moan. He didn't take away his hand, though. Alfred freed one hand, reaching up to drag it away. Arthur made a noise of protest, right before a loud groan of pleasure escaped.

   "Damn it, Alfred. Oh yes, oh yes, don't stop, fuck don't stop. Alfred, yes, oh gods yes. Fuck, fuck me, fuck me hard damn it."

   "Getting close," growled Alfred, eyes dark with lust.

   "Yes, yes, yes. Close, so close." The moan turned into a desperate sound just short of a whimper. Arthur's grip tightened, his breath coming in harsh pants. "Don't you dare pull out. Al-Alfred, close, close....

   It broke off in a wail of ecstasy as climax crashed over them. Alfred struggled not to drop Arthur as his body tried to go slack, the Brit shuddering in his arms. He was still catching his breath when he looked down, finally remembering one small, important detail.

   "That wasn't your only Christmas sweater, was it?"

   Arthur, who was still enjoying the high that followed an orgasm, cursed. "When this is over, I'm killing you."

   Alfred beamed. "Love you too, Artie."


End file.
